Ink
by Torithy
Summary: Appearances may be deceiving, but sometimes you have to ask whether you really want to delve beneath someone's skin - and how deep you're prepared to go ... (Story removed - see profile for note)


**Ink  
The palest ink is better than the sharpest memory – Chinese proverb**

**one**

The hum of the tattoo gun in steady bursts made itself easily heard over the rock music playing low on the beat-up stereo. Combined with the pull of the needle and the heat of the small studio, it was a strange kind of catharsis. Not everyone's idea of escape.

Closing his eyes against the brightness of the lamp above him, he folded his free arm behind his shaven head. A lit cigarette idled between the fingers of his other hand as it hung by his side, his mind clear of damn near everything. It was a rare moment of something close to peace. Or as close as someone like him was ever likely to get anyway.

That Men of Mayhem patch might as well be embedded in flesh rather than leather, the memories of how he'd earned it forever seared on his mind. On his heart. His conscience – for what it was.

No one earned a position like his without picking up a few scars along the way. Some physical, others ... not.

The jingle of the door chimes had him cracking open an eye before he could take another step down that particular path. It closed again though at the familiar sound of too-cheerful whistling, even though the needle had stopped moving over the skin low on his abdomen.

"Yo, Sketch, you wanna try dialling it down a notch? Some of us are trying to work."

"Damn, girl, what's eating you?" the late arrival demanded, throwing the question over his shoulder as he acknowledged their sole customer with a nod and shrugged off his battered army-style jacket. All while trying to juggle two take-away coffees. "Here - brought ya one of your fancy skinny, frothy, whatcha-ma-call-its."

"I'd ask what you did, but since you're already late ..."

He feigned theatrical outrage as he ran a hand over his short dark dreads. "You hear how she talks to a brother? Sometimes I wonder which one of us owns this joint."

"Funny, me too," she shot back, but she took the coffee he held out to her with a smirk. "Now, you gonna let me get on with this?" He held up his hands in silent defeat, retreating to the back office as she turned back to the job in hand – only to find dark eyes trained on her. "Sorry, you know what he's like."

Happy did. There were only a couple of tattoo studios he favoured these days – Skinz in Charming, where he got his reaper way back when, and Sketch's self-named Tacoma outfit – and he knew that, behind the mouth, the owner of the latter was a hell of an artist. Shit, he'd been responsible for pretty much all of the biker's right sleeve at one time or another.

Then that same mouth had gotten the opinionated tattooist in trouble - again - and he'd broken his arm in a bar fight. It put him out of action for weeks and left his most intimidating customer with an intricate but half-finished devil's face on his shoulder.

Cue Callie.

She'd been on the payroll, but off Happy's radar, for a while and it had taken a hell of a lot of fast-talking on Sketch's part to convince the biker to let the blonde finish up. It was just unfortunate she overheard the less than enthusiastic _so I'll give the bitch a chance, but she better damn well not screw up_. He probably deserved her snappy _don't do me any fucking favours_ – which was the sole reason he let it slide - but in his defence, she was probably the least likely tattoo artist he'd ever seen. Not that he cared about having a defence.

That had been maybe five years and many, many tattoos ago and he'd long since come to realise he'd gotten the girl all wrong. They did say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but he was a mean-looking bastard and thought that was pretty damn accurate. She, on the other hand, was harder than she looked.

At least he didn't have to admit his change of heart. His unspoken acceptance of her spoke volumes on its own. And beneath that almost-innocent exterior, behind those calm gray eyes, he'd found a fierce intelligence, ready sarcasm and, perhaps most surprisingly, a bold skull and crossbones design at the centre of an elaborate quarter-sleeve.

That and she knew how and when to keep her mouth shut.

"Nearly done here," she said, pausing to wipe down his tanned skin and survey her handiwork critically. Starting up her needle again to add a few finishing touches to the black outline.

"Hey, Callie!"

The shout cut through the relative peace of the studio and drew a frustrated glare in the direction it came from. "Fucking hell, Sketch, you should come with a mute button! You really want to make a chick with a needle jump?" Callie bit out.

Appearing in the doorway, wide-eyed at the venom in her tone, Sketch looked her over and then frowned. "What's with the 'tude, doll? You ain't normally this pissy. Even with me ..."

"So I don't want to fuck up a customer's ink – sue me," she muttered darkly. "What the hell did you want anyway?"

"Huh? Oh ... Can't remember." Her boss waved away the question, venturing out of the office and ambling across the room to perch on the empty recliner beside her and watch as she worked. "So come on then, what side of whose bed did you crawl out of this morning? 'Cause it sure as hell weren't the right side ... That's it, ain't it? One bad lay and you're taking your passive-aggressive shit out on me and Happy."

Huffing a stray lock of hair from her thick fishtail plait out of her eyes, Callie shook her head with one of those laughs that said_ I'm laughing now – you won't be in a minute. _"Okay, firstly – if I get aggressive, trust me, it ain't gonna be passive. Secondly, don't try dragging Hap down with your punk ass. And thirdly – and this one I'm pretty sure we've covered before – my sex life? Ain't up for discussion. _Capiche?_"

"Man ... when I'm right, I'm _right_! Back me up here, Hap."

"Are you shittin' me? You seen where she's got that thing pointed?" he drawled from the chair.

"Damn, you've changed, dude. What happened to bros before hoes?" Sketch demanded indignantly. Quickly sliding off the recliner and out of reach when he realised what he'd said. "Now, now, Cal – don't be gettin' all up in my face ... This is a professional establishment and we got a reputation to keep."

"Then back up offa me or I'll seriously consider branching out into piercings," the blonde warned, making a threatening jab-like gesture in his direction with the tattoo gun. "I ain't in the mood for your shit, Sketch."

"She definitely be in some kinda mood ..." he mock-whispered in Happy's direction, but she chose to ignore him and only looked up at the rumble of motorcycles outside. "You call for back-up to deal with this one? Good thinking, man."

The chimes jangled again and another biker strolled in, re-spiking his helmet-flattened blonde hair with one hand. A grin tugged the corners of his mouth upwards when he laid eyes on the shirtless Happy, then flicked his gaze to the girl leaning over him. "Life's a bitch, huh, bro? Listen, got a little visit to make, like sharpish. Boss said to take you or Paulie and if I take Paulie on the road again, he's comin' back in a box. I don't mind the kid in small doses, but that constant 'Yes, Koz. No, Koz. Three bags fuckin' full, Koz ...' Man, it bugs the hell outta me! So you in?"

"Guess so," Happy shrugged, turning to Callie. "We done?"

"Guess so," she echoed, laying down her tattoo gun. "I can finish up the shading another time. Just let me wrap it, since I managed not to screw the damn thing up an' all – despite Sketch's best efforts."

"Damn, doll, you did this?" Kozik asked, arms folded across his broad chest as he surveyed her work.

"Nah, Sketch drew it and I just laid Hap down and traced it," she said dryly.

"Sorry, sorry. Dumb question. But hey, you can lay me down anytime ..." he grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Only to be met with the kind of roll of her eyes that saw the smirk on his face fade. "Um ... Okay, I'm gonna go wait outside. Hap, see ya in five."

With a nod, Happy waited less than patiently for Callie to carefully cover his fresh tattoo in ointment to keep it moist. "He ain't used to gettin' shot down," he said. "Kozik."

"Might do him good – make him up his game."

"Nah, he's just gonna spend all fuckin' day bugging me about you. Thanks."

She smiled at that, the first genuine one he'd seen all morning. "Sorry." Wiping ointment from her fingers, she straightened up and rolled her shoulders to stretch out the muscles as he gathered his cut and gun to head for the door. "I can finish the shading ... whenever – let me know, yeah? Oh, and Hap?"

He paused in the doorway, pulling the leather vest over his plain black t-shirt.

"Try not to shoot Koz – he is kinda easy on the eye and you never know, I might change my mind about him."

And with a look that gave nothing away, he bumped his fist against the doorframe in a gesture of farewell and then he was gone. Callie slumped back down on her stool as she listened to the Harleys roar away, considering the sort of _little visit_ they were likely to make and the capabilities required.

"So ..."

"No, Sketch. Just ... no."

* * *

**to be continued ...**


End file.
